


Tell You My Thoughts (They're Scattered Like Crows)

by bordello_blues



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bordello_blues/pseuds/bordello_blues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny doesn’t mean to move in, he really, truly doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell You My Thoughts (They're Scattered Like Crows)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [resurrection_en_menthe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrection_en_menthe/gifts).



> One day I decided I needed a new ship, watched five episodes of H50 back-to-back, called the wonderful [resurrection_en_menthe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrection_en_menthe/pseuds/resurrection_en_menthe) and we both jumped into McDanno with absolutely no sense of self-preservation. Many thanks to her for the beta, the inspiration, and dealing with barrages of texts at every odd hour of the night and day.
> 
> The title is from _Fear & Trembling_ by The Cold War Kids.
> 
> Rating is for Chapter 2.

Danny doesn’t mean to move in, he really, truly doesn’t. Yet he wakes up one morning—overly warm and slightly sweaty, because sleeping with Steve is like sleeping with six foot something of overly affectionate octopus—and realizes that he hasn’t used the fold out couch at his place in _months_ and that his clothes are mixed in with Steve’s in the closet. All of his pictures of Grace, neat in their frames, have migrated to various surfaces both upstairs and downstairs. So yeah, Danny blinks the sleep from his eyes, and thinks that just maybe he needs to come to terms with the fact that they’re living together now. And when did that even happen? Danny needs to learn, _re_ learn, remember, _whatever_ , that McGarrett is synonymous with unconventional methods; see Danny’s surprise recruitment into Five-0. Minus the crazy that follows them around like it’s on a fucking leash, that’s turned out pretty great. So this probably will, too. Just hopefully with far fewer near-death experiences and grievous bodily harm, because all of that has no business in the bedroom. It doesn’t really have any business in Steve’s house either, but somehow ends up sneaking in on occasion anyway.

It’s that moment that Steve chooses to snuggle closer and grumble something into the side of Danny’s neck. That something is muffled and unintelligible, though the tone is unmistakably peevish. Steve rarely lets himself sleep in, but when he does, it’s just another thing he doesn’t do by halves.

“Didn’t quite catch that, you want to try again, babe?” Danny grins, and feels more awake than he should. The clock on the bedside table only confirms that thought and blinks an accusatory 8:37 at him in bright, red numbers. “Might help if you turn your head just a bit to the side, you know?”

Steve does just that with a delicious scrape of stubble and cracks one eye open in a glare that _might_ pass as vaguely threatening if it weren’t for Steve’s epic bedhead. “You’re thinking too loud. Stop it. Go back to sleep.” He says and nuzzles back into the juncture of Danny’s neck and shoulder; then winds his arms even tighter and continues with his best impression of a cephalopod. It’s a good impression—a real gold star performance.

Danny releases a gentle ‘oof’ as all the air is squeezed out of him and brings up a hand to scratch behind Steve’s ear. Which, admittedly, does earn him a pleased little noise, a loosening of the extra limbs that Danny is positive unfurl the second the lights go out and a contented wiggle. Steve is apparently half dog, half octopus, but Danny has long since come to accept the weirdness of his life since his partner stomped in and took over like he owned the place. To be fair, Danny does try to go back to sleep, he really does, even closes his eyes and slows his breathing.

When he opens them again the clock is blinking an angry 9:02 and the stupid, overwhelming hugeness of them _actually_ living together won’t stop niggling at the forefront of his thoughts.

“Babe. Steve. _Babe_.” Danny says and digs his knuckle into a soft spot between Steve’s fifth and sixth ribs.

All he gets in response is a noncommittal grunt and a hand clapped over his mouth, which Danny, mature adult that he is, promptly licks. It’s sadly ineffectual. Of course it would be, he licked that same palm last night (in a decidedly _sexy_ manner, but still) and that had Steve groaning against Danny’s chest. So it’s unfortunate, just not actually surprising, that sleepy Steve is inoculated to Danny’s early morning vindictiveness, but there it is. Danny reaches up to peel the fingers from his face and links them with his own to give them something to do that isn’t silencing the super important question he needs to ask right now. Immediately. That is if he wants to maintain even a semblance of peace of mind, or at least as much peace of mind as he can salvage since one Lieutenant Commander Steven J. McGarrett insinuated himself into every aspect of Danny’s life. Not that he minds, he’s flipping out a little bit, is all—just a touch. Okay, more than a touch, but it hasn’t reached full flip out mode yet. Thus: the question. _The_ question. The _question._ None of the inflections sound right in his head.

“Babe.” He tries again, but gets nothing in response. His one free hand is too tied up to do any more poking or prodding. “McGarrett.” Danny snaps, using the tone of voice he reserves for perps in the interrogation room, all sharp edges and authority. If he laughs at the way Steve surges up and tries to salute with the hand still holding Danny’s? Well, who can blame him?

“Oh, you think you’re funny?” Steve growls, voice scratchy with sleep and, Danny thinks, warmth pooling low in his gut, with a reminder of the truly epic blowjob Steve gave him last night. It’s adorable, really, the way Steve tries to look severe and fails epically. He’s too sleep-worn around the edges—hair sticking every which way, an imprint of Danny’s t-shirt collar crushed into his left cheek—severe very quickly turns into disgruntled on a yawn.

“You know what they say about desperate times,” Danny says with a wicked grin, and makes a valiant effort to ignore the vague puppy eyes now aimed at him. They’re not at full capacity quite yet, so they are not as effective as they would normally be. “So this is kind of out of the blue,” he starts, but finds himself fumbling for what to say. The expression on Steve’s face is stuck between exasperated and surprised—Danny is never at a loss for words.

“What is?” He prompts. Danny twitches and reads far too much into the half-arch of Steve’s eyebrow.

“You know what? Never mind. I’m making breakfast. What do you want?” Danny wriggles to escape the tempting tangle of their limbs and scrambles from the bed like it’s on fire. He can feel the quiet outrage of Steve’s stare prickling at the back of his neck as he grabs the nearest pair of boxers—of course they’re Steve’s, because the world is conspiring against Danny this morning—and heads for the door. “You want eggs?”

Behind him Steve groans and, judging by the creak of the bedsprings, collapses back into the warm spot Danny left behind. “Please don’t make a frittata,” Steve shouts at his retreating back, then amends with, “At least keep a fire extinguisher handy if you do.”

 

\--

 

The morning goes swimmingly after that. Danny even manages to make a decent scramble—it’s only slightly burnt around the edges, eggs and Danny just don’t mesh—but he does have to contend with Steve’s heavy stare from across the kitchen table. Like he’s trying to figure Danny out and identify the source of the unease in the air, even if it means picking Danny apart in the process. It probably doesn’t help that Danny twitches and jerks his gaze to a fixed point right above Steve’s left shoulder every time they make eye contact. Danny finally snaps after fifteen minutes of tense, uncomfortable silence, which he spends pushing eggs around his plate, appetite suddenly lost.

“Jesus Christ, McGarrett, can you not?” He says and slams his fork down on the table. “Just stop it with the— With the face.” It’s not aneurysm face; it’s not even the Navy SEAL death stare. In fact, Danny would prefer either of the two to the expression Steve is wearing; at least those are known quantities.

“I’m not—Danny, this is my normal face.”

“Ah, see, no, no, it’s really not. You’ve got that thing,” he points an accusatory finger at the wrinkle between Steve’s eyebrows, “That you’re doing right now, right this very second, with your eyebrows.” Steve’s brow furrows even more. “Yeah, that one. See, now it’s worse. And you’re staring. What’s with the staring? I’m not an insect, _Steven_. You can’t just pin me to some Styrofoam, put me in a display case and think you’ll figure me out. That’s not how this works. You’re not an entomologist, unless they taught you that in ninja school, too. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Danny is ranting. He knows this. When he nearly sends his coffee mug flying off the table, he realizes he is waving his arms about perhaps a touch too exuberantly. But now he really is panicking, one hundred percent, because he’s not mentally primed for this conversation, he’s only on his second cup of coffee for Christ’s sake! Steve, though, Steve will keep needling and nagging and asking perceptive questions until Danny finally cracks, because Steve’s advanced interrogation techniques aren’t confined to dangling people off of rooftops and throwing them in shark tanks. No, no, there’s also the one that involves cornering Danny in the car, or in the kitchen, even the bedroom (that one is _not_ fair), and just being himself. Danny can’t resist Steve. He’s not genetically wired for it, though he doubts anybody really is. Steve McGarrett is irre-fucking-sistible, which is exactly how Danny ended up unintentionally living with him in the first place. Ergo, everything is Steve’s fault. Admittedly, that thought does make him feel just a _teensy_ bit better.

“I do know a bit about insects,” Steve interjects when Danny pauses in his tirade to refill his lungs.

“Of _course_ you do. You would, wouldn’t you?” Danny doesn’t know why he sounds so disgusted, or why he is abruptly massively pissed off. No denying that he is, though, he can feel the hot curl of it in his chest and the burn of it in his cheeks. Maybe it’s the taken-aback look on Steve’s face—that slight flicker of hurt in Steve’s eyes—that Danny put there, no less. He scrubs his hands over his face and combs his hair back, tries desperately to tamp down his irrational anger, but it’s not going anywhere.

“Danny…” Steve says, expression a little lost and painfully earnest.

“Look,” Danny finally mumbles, “Let’s just not do this right now, okay? I can’t handle it right now.”

Steve blinks. Once. Twice.

“Not do _what_ now?” He asks.

“This thing. Anything.” Danny gestures between them. “That thing where you ask uncomfortable questions and I have to answer them because I can’t resist your stupid puppy eyes. Okay, seriously? What did I say? What did I just say? Stop it with the puppy eyes, _McGarrett._ ”

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Nothing. Everything. Danny says neither of those, just employs Eye Contact Avoidance Maneuver #13, which involves grabbing his dishes, barely touched breakfast and all, and letting them clatter into the empty sink.

“You’re not doing anything wrong. I’m just.” Danny leans against the counter, back still to Steve. How does he put this freak out into words? How can Danny explain that Rachel took something inside of him and broke it? “Give me some space to think, babe, okay? Go for a swim, or a run, or something, anything. I need to cool off.”

Danny absolutely does not turn around at Steve’s quiet huff. He does, however, dart a lightning-fast glance in his partner’s direction and notes, guiltily, the sheer amount of willpower it takes for Steve to let this go, even if it’s just for the moment. Hours pass, what feels like hours—but Danny has been counting and it’s only been a minute, tops—before Steve stands to leave. The sound of chair legs on tile is deafening and of course, _of course_ , Steve has to walk right by him on his way out to the lana’i. Danny can feel the tense heat radiating off of him as he lingers for half a moment all of six inches away.

“Go on.” Danny says. “Please.” He adds as an afterthought, and is a bit shocked at the way his voice cracks over it, desperate, almost pleading.

For once, Steve listens, and Danny turns to watch him go—wearing nothing but boardshorts and aneurysm face—and Danny feels… Well, horrible probably doesn’t do it justice.

The thing is, Danny is a worrier. He worries _constantly_ about _everything_. From small worries, like Gracie’s pancakes having the perfect ratio of chocolate chips, or getting everyone’s orders right when it’s his turn to grab lunch. To big ones, like Gracie growing up and paying attention to boys and going off to college, or his knee going to shit and putting him permanently behind a desk. Since he joined Five-0 though, a lot of it has been about Steve and his stupid, reckless behavior; and which one of them is going to get shot, or kidnapped, or god knows what, next. They have a dangerous job, he gets that, but he can’t stop thinking of the worst possible outcomes, because he can’t leave Grace without a father, and he can’t lose Steve, or Kono, or Chin. Certainly not when he’s finally learning to be something approaching happy again for the first time since the divorce, even in spite of the fact that he’s stuck on a huge rock in the middle of the goddamn ocean. And through it all, this thing with Steve, whatever it is, it’s been so easy. Natural, like breathing, and so simple to fall into; but terrifying, because the last time he was in this deep ended so poorly. Danny feels like they’re moving too fast, and not fast enough. He doesn’t do casual relationships, he’s never been any good at _not_ falling in love, but he’s got a whole slew of commitment issues that make everything just that much more complicated.

And Steve? Steve likes to fix things, but Danny has been avoiding that, too. He’s been dodging all the necessary conversations and acting solely on impulse—maybe they’ve been around each other for too long if that’s the way he’s handling things now—but Steve just lets it be. It’s hard not to: Danny has mastered avoidance, particularly when it comes to assigning this thing between them some sort of official status. And it does feel good, it does feel natural, but it’s still _too_ easy (easier than Rachel ever was), and Danny keeps waiting with bated breath for the other shoe to drop.

He washes the dishes, slowly, carefully, the Navy way, the way he knows Steve will appreciate—which he only does when his partner isn’t watching, because Danny is spiteful when it comes to control issues and backseat _everything_. And he thinks. And thinks. And thinks.

He’s still thinking in the shower an hour later; about love and the way that Steve has weaseled his way into Danny’s heart and stolen a piece of it for himself. The water is heaven on the tense muscles in his shoulders. And maybe he’s finally getting somewhere with all these thoughts. Danny is a realist, though, it’s not like he can magic all his insecurities away, or develop sudden and very specific amnesia, but he’s willing to give it a shot, at least. Not the amnesia, not the magic, but the two of them, with actual words this time.

“Danno,” he hears, “We should talk.”

 _That_ is when everything goes pear-shaped. Or at least the world tilts sideways and suddenly he’s sprawled gracelessly in the tub and tangled in the shower curtain, with what he knows will be a huge lump starting to make itself known on the back of his head. Steve is standing above him affecting concern, dripping seawater, and looking, for all intents and purposes, like a Greek god— _Ares, definitely_ , Danny thinks dazedly. Maybe, maybe, he says it out loud, because there’s a quick flicker of amusement in Steve’s eyes.

“I knocked,” Steve says in lieu of an apology.

“Ow,” Danny intelligently remarks. Then, because if he just lets it go Steve will think he can pull shit like this every day, adds, “You maniac.”

But it’s okay, because just like that it’s easy again. _They’re_ easy again. Or at least they’re getting there.

 

\--

 

Danny grabs the first vaguely stick-shaped object he can reach and spins on Steve like he has a beef to settle. He does. Kind of. Honestly, he just needs something to do with his hands while he talks. If he gets angry again, Danny knows he’d probably be able to keep it out of his voice, but his hands speak their own language. One made up of jabbing and accusatory pointing and more than a little bit of relentless prodding.

“You see this, Steve? This is the talking stick,” he says and waves the thing in his hands in his partner’s face. It takes a truly valiant amount of effort not to laugh at the way Steve shuffles a quick step backwards.

“That’s a duster, Danny.” He sounds mildly exasperated, still amused though, if the glimmer in his eye is anything to go by.

“Right, it has feathers, of _course_ it’s a duster. I know that. But pretend, pretend for a second that it’s the talking stick and I’m holding it, which means I’m the one doing the talking and you’re the one listening. Soon as I’m done, I’ll pass it to you and then you can talk, but I need to say some things first.”

Steve blinks and surreptitiously tucks a rectangular package into their shopping cart.

“No, what are you doing? What the hell is wrong with you? We’re not getting a camo-print shower curtain. Put it back. Jesus _Christ_ , you’re going to drive me crazy. Next thing I know you’ll have one custom made with pockets.” The look of epiphany on Steve’s face does not bode well, and Danny, dignity all but gone, threatens him with the duster. “Do _not_ get any ideas. I will actually kill you. I’m a cop, I’ll get away with it, too.”

“Danny—”

“Uh-uh. See, that’s not how this works, I’m still holding the talking stick, which means _I’m_ talking.” Okay, maybe he’s shouting—is shouting, definitely. But they’re just about one and the same in the Danny Williams playbook of dealing with Steve McGarrett. It’s not the angry kind, though, and he can tell because he’s the one doing it, but also because there’s a smile twitching at Steve’s lips and he looks more amused than antagonistic. “What are you planning on _murdering_ people in there? We’re not getting a black one either.” Steve looks putout, but obediently places both of his shower curtain choices back on the shelf. “Steve, babe, _Steven_ ,” Danny takes a deep breath to steel himself; this isn’t how he imagined having this conversation. Not in a Bed, Bath & Beyond, not with a duster in his hand, and certainly not in public; but it’s happening, now, like it or not, because if Danny holds it in any longer he’ll be fit to burst. “Can I move in with you?” He finally blurts. And that… That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had a plan damn it, one that involved leading up to that question with a lot more words, but now it’s all shot to shit, because that’s what happens with a lot of his plans when Steve gets involved.

Steve stares at him like he’s grown a second head, but doesn’t say anything. He does however set aside a handful of shower curtains in various shades of green to gesture towards the duster. “Can I talk now?” He asks uncertainly, and Danny all but shoves it into his hands.

“Yeah, right, of course, your turn. Shoot.”

Danny is absolutely not freaking out. He’s not.

“Danno,” Steve breaths, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, a quizzical look affixed to his face. Danny wants to snatch the duster back, avert this disaster, but he’s petrified, apprehensive of what the answer might be. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to ask _before_ we’ve been doing that very thing for months? Or do you do things differently in Jersey?” There’s a stupid, blinding grin breaking out on Steve’s face, the goofy one, the one that crinkles his eyes and sets Danny’s heart to beating so hard inside his chest he thinks he might be dying. Danny doesn’t even notice he’s been holding his breath until it all whooshes out of him in a relieved sigh.

“Oh, thank _fuck_.” He manages.

“Shut up. I’m still holding your stupid duster.” Steve says. Damn him. He learns fast. Danny makes a snatch for it, but Steve easily holds it out of his reach. Danny glares _daggers_. Sharp ones. Millions of them. “Is that what was bugging you all morning?”

Danny makes the universal gesture for ‘give-it-here’ and starts talking before he’s even holding the duster. “Well, yeah. I mean, are we moving too fast, do you think? We didn’t really discuss it and I kind of flipped out because we haven’t really discussed much of anything. But you,” he gestures to Steve, “And me,” then to himself, “It just feels so right, you know? And I don’t know if you’re not saying anything because you’re being so _you_. But what if you’re not comfortable with it and what if you need space and I just moved in without asking. What if I’m taking advantage? And… Jesus Christ. I don’t know where I’m going with this.” Danny forces himself to pause and take a breath. His mouth is running away with him, a thousand miles a minute, and he doesn’t know what to say to make Steve understand. “ _I can’t fuck this up._ Not with you.” He sounds desperate and breathless, stumbling over his words like a teenager, but at least he sounds earnest.

Steve rolls his eyes. Of course he does. He’s still Steve, after all.

“Danno,” he says, again, duster forgotten, he doesn’t have to say anything else—the tone says everything. It’s equal parts fond exasperation and steely, focused devotion, and the look in Steve’s eyes is so open that Danny finds himself drowning in it; he never wants to come up for air. A million and one things left unsaid between them, but they can figure that part out as they go. It’s baggage, but it’s manageable, even if it might need one of those ‘heavy’ tags they stick on at the airport and charge exorbitantly for.

“Okay.” Danny says, and once again for good measure, “Okay.”

“How’s your head?” Steve asks, like nothing’s happened, like everything is back to normal. It’s not, it’s better, Danny thinks.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Steven, normal people don’t use ninja skills to initiate shower sex.”

“I wasn’t— Not _sex._ ” Steve looks appalled at the very suggestion. Though he does have the decency to look sheepish in short order. Behind him, an affronted mother claps her hands over her teenage son’s ears and ushers the kid out of the aisle—she looks outraged, the kid’s eyes are sparkling with mirth.

“Or to initiate deep, meaningful conversations. Just don’t sneak up on me when I’m in the shower.”

Steve gives him a look. It is a look Danny knows all too well: a little baleful with a hint of I-thought-you-liked-that. Sexy, is what it is; it is a decidedly sexy look. Okay, so maybe Danny is incapable of being subjective about Steve’s general level of sexiness.

“No, I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying no to shower sex.” He caves. Steve’s responding smile is blinding, so bright Danny wants to shield his eyes. “You dope. I’m just saying—I don’t know—make some noise or something next time, jeez. I’m lucky I didn’t get a concussion today, and lord knows I’m in enough danger of those what with running around with you all the time. Okay? Okay.”

When they get to the counter Danny finds the camouflage shower curtain tucked beneath the nice, pale blue one he picked out. He rolls his eyes, but lets Steve buy it. That, in the end, is Danny’s way of saying sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the original prompt from [resurrection_en_menthe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrection_en_menthe/pseuds/resurrection_en_menthe) called for McDanno at BB&B, but I am incapable of writing 100% crack, apparently, that is something new I learned about myself. I hope you enjoyed! As this is my first, but certainly not last, foray into writing McDanno, all comments and kudos are welcome (yes, feed my ego, please :D). Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also, I am absolutely 100% an idiot. I had Chapter 2 almost complete, unfortunately I then deleted it, and can't recover it. I was going to post it over the weekend, but it'll probably have to wait until late next week.


End file.
